


We Drift Freely Onwards

by Applepie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Brackets canon, Carcassa Family, Crossover, Family, Friendship, Gen, Harry is Skull, Master of Death - to be, MoD!Harry, Ron and Hermione are wonderful friends, travelling circus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Applepie/pseuds/Applepie
Summary: Harry’s journey to become the man known as Skull De Mort was unintentional. It began with a realisation, a broken-down motorbike, and a trip to Japan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Something not too long or complex, and hopefully highlighting Harry’s lovely friends and family as people who are worthy of those titles.

Harry’s life truly began around his late-twenties, when he finally realised it was acceptable to step away from the wizarding world.

During his early years after the Battle of Hogwarts, after Voldemort’s final demise, Harry had found himself drifting aimlessly through life.

The threat that had plagued him for majority, if not all, his years was finally gone, and it was such a surreal change. He was used to being bogged down by the weight on his shoulders, to constant dangers, to being chained down by duty and responsibilities. But with that all gone, and Harry didn’t know what to do with himself because everything else was so foreign.

He’d kept himself busy, helping with the reconstruction of Hogwarts and attending the funerals of friends and classmates. Then once there were no more distractions to hide behind any longer, he’d enrolled into the Auror Program like everyone expected of him, because he needed to get his life back on track.

He would train, study, and have dinner with Ron and Hermione. His life was finally _normal_ for once, but he still couldn’t shake off the feeling of wrongness of it all. Harry felt like he was suffocating in a stifling routine, body craving for the unrelenting need to be free.

Yet he _was_ free already, wasn’t he? Voldemort was dead, and he wasn’t tied to that damn prophecy any longer, no longer the fated Chosen One.

Still, regardless of that small nagging in his mind, Harry continued to carry on each day, because his life honestly _was_ normal for once, just as he wanted it to be… until around his mid-twenties when Harry stopped aging entirely.

He laughed a hollow, bitter laugh at the irony of it all – _normal_ , when was his life ever normal?

Ron had huffed at his bitter tones. “Don’t worry, mate, we’ll figure it out.”

“Only you,” Hermione added teasingly, with fondness in her voice. Harry felt instantaneously better, though that also may or may not have to do with the fact she’d started researching right away for his sake.

So, it turned out the mysteriously loyal Hollows might have had a hand with his eternal youthfulness. He’d tried again and again the ditch the things, burn them, bury them, or lock them in his vaults, only to have them mysteriously appear by his person the very next day.

Ron looked out of his depths, and Hermione had a glint in her eye when they found out about it. Harry heaved a loud sigh.

Harry supposed he could live with constant youthfulness – he finally managed to get himself used to the idea -, and then that was when the withering pains in his chest started.

The first few times it occurred, he’d assumed it was merely heartburn, or whatever wizarding equivalent condition it was. He would’ve happily continued to delude himself in the months to come, were it not for his magic. The familiar warmth of his magical core felt like it was changing, slowly but surely, every passing day. He would’ve noticed it earlier, but it didn’t feel _wrong._ It was only growing stronger, with a hint of some exotic flavour Harry couldn’t name, yet it flowed naturally and familiarly and Harry hadn’t paid it much heed.

In fact, his magic was fine - it was just his body that couldn’t keep up with the increased surge of magical energy, or so Hermione hypothesized.

That night they had figured that out, Harry went to bed, only to be greeted by a dark figure in his dreams.

He – it – was a blurry thing, with no discernable figure or traits. It was like a smudge of ink in his dreamscape that negated his eye’s ability to focus. Yet, it felt heavy and familiar, and Harry couldn’t turn away.

It took a moment of staring and squinting, before Harry murmured, “Death,” in a sibilant voice, awfully confident and calm.

The figure moved to acknowledge him. It didn’t speak, but Harry somehow understood it all the same.

He listened. Then he woke up, and made plans to call up his best friends.

* * *

 

“So,” Harry began, drawing out the word as his two friends awaited the reason for his summon. “I met Death,” he said, quick and to the point.

Ron choked. “W-what?”

“Are you alright, Harry?”

Harry shrugged like it was a normal event, meeting the absolute being that no one could escape from. “I haven’t died yet, but… apparently Master of Death _is_ a thing.”

The two studied him for a moment before Hermione finally continued.

“I figured, considering you’ve managed to stop aging,” Hermione said, slowly. “But I didn’t think there was an actual personification. So you’re literally the Master of the being known as Death?” she questioned.

Hermione’s gaze was intense, burning with the need for knowledge. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. “Uh, I think so? Though it sounded more like joint supervision over the death of the world, to me.”

“Misleading title, innit?” Ron chuckled.

A smile twitched on Harry’s lips, “Right?”

“Boys,” Hermione chided, amused, but nevertheless unwilling to let them stray off tangent. “Did Death tell you why you’re feeling sick?” she asked worriedly.

Harry paused, and Ron immediately sobered.

“What is it, mate?” he urged.

Harry tried to pull a comforting smile on his face. “It turns out you were right, ‘Mione,” he said bitterly. “My body can’t keep up. I’m dying.” He ignored the twin looks of horror on their faces. He’d had a long enough rest after Death’s visit to sort his anger and fear – the hoarse voice and broken furniture in his house conceded to that. “I’m getting more powerful to prepare as the Master of Death, but a human body can’t endure the powers of Death, apparently.”

“So the more power you get- ” Hermione whispered out, knowing full well Harry was gaining it day-by-day.

“-the sicker I become,” Harry finished when she couldn’t. “Until I die.”

“You don’t have to be dead to be the Master of Death!” Hermione bursted out, before sinking into herself, “Do you?”

Ron gripped her hand like a lifeline.

“I’ll wake up … like- like the War,” he murmured softly, hating the memories that those simple words pulled along. “My magic will help me reborn as the Master of Death.” Harry paused, before continuing cautiously, “…I just don’t know how it’ll change me.”

In an ideal world, it would be _exactly_ like seventh year. He would wake up with no change, with perhaps just a sore back. But now he would be the Master of Death, and what exactly did that entail? Could he still be _Harry Potter_ as well as _Master of Death,_ or would Harry Potter truly and completely die when that day came?

His friends looked older than ever. Harry’s heart clenched, and the uncomfortable feeling in his chest had nothing to do with the influx of Death’s power – not this time. He drew his friends into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’m sorry.” Because he knew how much they’d hurt over his death the first time around, and how much more they would hurt now, because they’d expected the pain of war and death to be long over.

“How long do you have?” Ron asked.

Harry didn’t know.

It was Hermione who changed his life for the better, when she then followed up with a, “If you die tomorrow, will you regret your life?”

Harry hadn’t understood until she sighed and continued, “We are your friends, Harry. We can see you haven’t been truly happy in a while. Maybe it’s time for a change of pace, to find what you’re missing – live your life like every day is your last. I don’t want you to regret.”

“You deserve it,” Ron agreed.

“But I have a career, and you two are here…” Harry tried not to think about how the thoughts of _travelling the world_ blinked into his mind for all of a second.

“Sod it,” the redhead exclaimed, “you don’t even _need_ it.”

“You’re unnecessarily tying yourself down,” Hermione added. “We love you, Harry, but we can do with letters and the occasional visit.”

“But…” How could Harry _protect_ them if anything happened, if he was so far away? Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasley were strong wizards and witches on their own right, but Harry worried.

“Don’t think about us for once. What do _you_ want to do?”

He wanted to break free from Britain’s Wizarding World where everyone knew his name and life’s story, and be just Harry. He wanted to travel, and learn new things. He wanted to experience what the rest of the world had to offer.


	2. Chapter 2

Travelling was exhilarating.

The pain in his chest was a constant nowadays. He knew it was getting stronger, but the pace was gradual and his tolerance adjusted accordingly, so it was something he managed to relatively ignore for the most part. There were occasions of feverish weeks, but it was nothing he couldn't sleep off, and his magic always helped him make up for the lost travel days.

Not that his muggle means of travel was slow to being with.

He'd acquired a motorbike from a junkyard early on in his adventure. Harry had done a near double-take at the sight of it. It was a decrepit thing, likely un-startable, but there was a need in Harry's heart that had his limbs reaching for it before the thought even processed in his mind. Perhaps it was the way it reminded him of Sirius and his flying bike, or maybe he related to it, stuck in one place when it could instead be free to roar down the highway stretch across the world.

It was impulse that had Harry magicking the bike with him and fixing it up.

It ran on a mix of muggle and magical means, and did it  _soar._

It was freeing, the way wind whipped through his hair, and the way his heart jumped with every bump on the road. It was like flying – why had be put away his broomstick for the Auror uniform, Harry would never know – but even better, because he could go  _anywhere_  in the world with, be it muggle or magical and no one would care. Even better,  _he_  was the one who made it happen.

So he travelled on that motorbike of his whenever possible, shrinking and storing it away in those little moments when it was not.

The bike was an extension of his body, with the way he was now capable of maneuvering that thing. He'd missed the acrobatic tricks only he was brave enough to execute on his Firebolt, and so he'd brought that stupidity onto his bike. It was new and creative, and it got his adrenaline pumping harder than ever. It also certainly helped that the concentration required to ensure he didn't snap his neck as he performed his crazy tricks kept his mind away from the occasional spasms deep in his chest.

Somewhere along the lines, he realised they were called ' _stunts'_ , those tricks he performed. And he acquired a new title. Harry Potter, Man-Who-Conquered, apprentice Master of Death, and stuntman.

He wrote letters to Ron and Hermione about it, laughing at their claim that he would have an army of titles by the time he dropped by Britain once more.

Then he continued travelling.

Along the way, he fell in love with Japanese culture.

There was something amazing about the juxtapose of the country-side, full of hills and fresh air, shrines and large farm plots, to the bright, neon lights of Tokyo with all its bustling of people and colours.

And the shows!

The imaginations of these people were amazing. Wizarding folk were so dull – they had all the magical creatures they could imagine, so why go to the trouble of inventing new ones?

Harry sequestered himself away in his hotel room for a little while, watching game shows and anime, and anything else he could get his hands on. He'd started because he had been confined with nothing to do and a spontaneous fever kept him from running about. He'd continued even after he recovered because he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen.

Sometime into his marathon, almost delusional after weeks nonstop, he wondered if magical girl – boy – Harry Potter needed a civilian identity as well.

He wanted something completely opposite to what the name Harry Potter invoked. If Harry Potter was the hero of the Wizarding World, the saviour of their lives, then his civilian identity would be death – De Mort. …Skull De Mort.

Harry laughed a hysterical, sleep deprived laugh and then sent a missive about his identity change to his friends before he even fully comprehend the action himself.

He woke up to Hermione's reply of "Whatever makes you happy," in a cursive scrawl that told of her exasperation. If she had been physically present, Harry swore she would've shaken her head fondly and heaved a long sigh into her palms.

Harry cackled, and Skull was born.

Becoming Skull was freeing in a way that travelling only touched the tip of. He was a new man now, with a new life, and of course, a new childhood. Harry Potter lived a constrained childhood, unable to be a kid under the Dursely's rule. He was forced to work chores the moment he could, told to be quiet, told to never be seen, told to never act out, never do anything that would shadow Petunia's precious little Dudders.

Skull would be the complete opposite.

Skull would have a childhood at the age of twenty-six, but it was better to have his childhood late than never.

He decided to split his titles between the two. Harry Potter, Man-Who-Conquered, apprentice Master of Death. Skull De Mort, stuntman. Somehow that rang so much truer than it had before.

It was only a little later that Skull De Mort honestly became a stuntman in the eyes of the world.

* * *

 

Though, to tell the truth, that, much like his name, had been completely unintentional.

Skull hadn't explicitly sought out the travelling circus. Rather, he'd gone to a show as part of the audience and spurred by their death-defying performances, he spend the next few days concocting more and more dangerous acts on his bike. It was chance, or luck, that had the circus artists passing by and seeing his practice. And then the ringmaster had approached him with an offer.

He asked for his biggest, baddest, most dangerous stunts.

Skull considered the job offer as a hand rubbed against his pain constricted chest and throbbing heart. "If I'm dying, I'm dying on my own terms," he had said to himself, and then signed a contract that led him to a life he has yet to regret.

He charmed his hair and eyes, and painted his face to match his fellow artists in that colourful circus he'd joined. It was too bad it was perpetually hidden under his helmet when he performed. To counter that, he played up his personality to something flamboyantly perky (and it helped that when he was so loud, it made people overlook him trying to hide the pains of his dying body).

"I am the Great Skull! The Great Skull-sama!" he crowed, dropping in a honorific that only made his name so very grander. Japanese only seemed fitting, as his identity of Skull was concocted during his trip in Japan.

His tricks were heart jolting, his showmanship was over-the-top, and the crowd couldn't get enough of him.

Eventually he started calling himself the Immortal Skull De Mort. No one knew where the name came from, but his stunts were crazy enough to warrant the name.

No one knew that in the privacy of his trailer, Skull had strip off his battle armour – his helmet and makeup – and written a solemn letter to his friends prior to that day.

 

_Ron and Hermione,_

_Guess what, I'm also immortal. There was a bit of an accident during stunt practice the other day… I survived, but I don't think I would've if I were anyone else. Long story short, what should've killed me regenerated to a minor wound in a matter of hours._

_Turns out I can't even decide when I die._

_Love,_

_The Immortal Skull De Mort_

 

The two, bless their Gryffindor golden hearts, heard his silent angst, and immediately invited him back home for dinner and stay. Skull left to an irate ringmaster, but they were in-between travelling and Skull promised to make it back on time.

Ron and Hermione welcomed him home with open arms.

Ron had frozen when Skull first appeared at the portkey point, stared intently at his costumed face for a long moment, before a smile finally broke out. "Harry! Skull!" he corrected.

Skull shrugged. "Whichever you like, mate," and his idle words only brightened the two's day.

"You sound a lot better," Hermione said.

"I am. You were right, 'Mione. You always are." He was glad she forced him to go out and enjoy himself. He never knew how stifling it was doing his Auror job and being  _Harry Potter_ , until he left.

The woman hooked her arm through the crook of her best friend's own, and Ron oh-so-naturally slotted into the other side. "Let's go home, Skull. We have dinner waiting for us, and I baked your favourite treacle tarts for dessert."

This was  _his_  family. He felt himself relax.

"You spoil me," Skull crooned, and let their idle talk wash over him.

Skull talked about his travels, the places he'd been, the food he'd eaten, the different cultures, his current stint as Skull the Stuntman, and the travelling circus. He talked and talked until he ran out of topics, and there was only one left to touch upon.

Skull quieted down.

Ron and Hermione eyed each other before Ron took the plunge. "So, this immortal thing," he began clumsily.

"Yeah?" Skull uttered, and it was cruel of him to make Ron continue but  _he_ definitely didn't want to.

"… I guess it means you're immortal?"

It was hilarious because Ron clearly didn't know what to say, and it was sweet because despite so, he was ardently trying.

"Yeah," Skull agreed, not quite able to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Hermione pulled him in for another hug. "That doesn't change anything," she insisted, with Ron nodding earnestly beside her. "But…" she continued curiously, because if Hermione was anything, she had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, "What happened?"

Skull skimmed over the detail, determined not to linger too long on the fact his body had deteriorated further. He didn't tell them how he'd continued practice instead of calling in sick. He didn't tell him how his head had been aching earlier that day. He didn't tell them the blood in his cough, or the vertigo which had obscured his vision at just the wrong moment. He skipped straight to his death.

"I didn't quite make the last flip," Skull said awkwardly, "and gravity took hold." He remembered that ' _Uh oh'_  second and that flicker of realisation of how his heavy bike would land on top of him. He remembered that instant burst of pain which faded into purple oblivion.

Then, he remembered awaking to torn and bloody stunt gear and a large crick in his neck and back. Instinctively he knew he was waking up and walking off from the impossible.

"Basically, Death told me, as the Master of Death–to be, my name's been taken off the Death List. He won't let me die until the day of my 'reborn'."

"Death?!" Hermione jumped at the information. "You saw him again?"

 _'Saw'_  was subjective. It was just an indistinguishable blob that never spoke, but Skull always managed to understand him all the same.

"He's in my dreams sometimes."

"You never mentioned this before!"

"Uh, I didn't think it was important?" Because Death never seemed to do much other than monitor him and 'speak' only when  _it_  felt like it.

"Harry!" she chided.

Skull grinned sheepishly, before it faded. He gave a loud huff. "Turns out I can't even die when I want to."

"Well, considering your reckless tendencies," the woman said slowly, "I admit I'm relieved."

"But it's  _my_  life," Skull growled. "Why does Death get to decide for me? Why can't I ever control anything in my life?" Retrospectively, Harry Potter's life had been dictated, long before he was even a conscious babe. He was labeled a hero early on, and it created a pressure on him that he tried to live up to. Voldemort had plans for him, Dumbledore had plans for him, the entire Wizarding World had plans for him, and little Harry Potter had been pulled by their strings.

"That's not true, mate. You chose to travel, you chose to become Skull, you chose to be a stuntman and to join the circus. You  _are_ in control."

Skull's tense shoulders drooped. "Yeah," he murmured distantly. "Yeah, you're right." It was late in his life, but for once he was doing thing  _he_  wanted to do. Perhaps not  _everything_  in his life was as free from interference as he liked, but he couldn't win it all.

Still didn't mean he wasn't bitter, though.


	3. Chapter 3

 

When he became a little too famous in that travelling circus, Skull took off once more. He didn't like expectations – Harry had been subjected to those too many times already; he just wanted to do what he wanted to do.

Maybe he would start his own traveling show. Maybe he would take an easy couple months and indulge himself in more television marathons. Maybe he would go back to his roots and soar through countries on his beloved bike.

There were so many possibilities.

In the end, he decided to go somewhere new, and ended up in Italy. Sicily, to be exact.

The beaches were crystal beautiful and the Greek temples were awing to sights to experience. Though, eventually, Skull found himself wanting more. He spent his later weeks shuffling along cobble stoned paths, following his instincts, trying to find the heart of Sicily - places boring tourist booklets failed to advertise.

It was there he heard gunshots echoing through the streets.

Skull stilled, body alert as he pinpointed the noise. It sounded close by, down a few alleyways or so, nestled around the dark corner and away from traffic. Skull heard succession of shots and heavy voices, and he knew without a doubt there would be blood and death waiting.

Curse his saving-people tendencies, Skull found himself rushing towards the sounds of gunfire anyways, instead of running away.

What he saw astonished him.

It  _had_  occurred to Skull this was Italy, mafia central. Though the gathered group were a bit more impeccably dressed than Skull expected for battle, the firearms they welded were more or less expected. It was the flames that threw him for a loop.

There were fires spouting from some of the men – from their hands or weapons – manipulated so calmly like it was a natural phenomenon. And they weren't just the typical red-orange flame, either. Skull's first thought was  _magic_ , but no one held wands and this wasn't any spell he'd seen before.

His instincts rebutted the idea as well. There was something about those flames that didn't have the familiarity of the magic wizards and witches were used to; this was something entirely new.

Skull pressed his back into the shadows, watching the proceeding with caution and curiosity. The handy language spell he'd cast on himself when he arrived in Italy, did its job.

 _"You Santora bastards,"_  one side growled.

 _"What is a weak Family like yours going to do about it? The Carcassa are nothing to us_ ," the other retorted.

Men were plenty, but the sides weren't evenly matched. What Skull assumed were the Santora famiglia, clearly had the upper hand. But these were their personal matters. Who was Skull to intervene?

That was, until-

" _You violated our territory, how dare you scum think you can get away with that. And you dare trafficked the children from our territory. You've crossed the line. The Carcassa will not back down."_

Human trafficking?  _Children_  trafficking?

Skull saw red.

He took a deep breath to suppress the burning of his breathing and limbs. Then, he unshrunk his motorcycle and clipped on his helmet in harsh movements, head already calculating the best route. The alleyway was narrow, but Skull had driven in tighter places before, and the array of junk on the ground provided perfect launching points for his motorbike aerobatics.

The rev of his bike was the first thing that the mafia heard before Skull appeared.

Skull pulled his bike back into a wheelie, using the lifted front to mow down into the Santora men. With a quick adjustment in weigh distribute, Skull swapped into a front wheelie, using the trick as a fulcrum to help him twist the opposite direction.

His appearance was unexpected, and as the unknown variable, the mafia didn't seem to know what to do with him at first. But when it became clear he was only attacking the Santora, the familgia started fighting back.

Skull was glad that, though he may be immortal, he'd magicked his helmet bulletproof. A brain splattered death was not something he wanted to experience, as much as he wanted to push the boundaries of Death's word.

Then, a few more minutes in the battle, Skull was forced ditch his beloved bike. The Santora were smart, aiming for the gas tank and tires, leaving Skull unable to ride anymore.

He tucked into a roll to slip out of their sight – mostly because his body had started that motion when he involuntarily tipped forwards.

Skull didn't know what adventures he had anticipated for his Italy vacation, but it certainly hadn't been to rush into the middle of a gun fight between opposing mafia families. Hermione would lecture him for hours if she found out.

Nothing he could do about that now, though.

Skull flicked his wrist. The magically hidden holster on his wrist deposited his Holly wand to his hand with ease. Skull didn't particularly want to have to resort to magic before finding what those coloured fire were, but there was nothing he could do unless he wanted to be at a disadvantage.

He couldn't die, but it was still a pain. And the less he had to be confronted with the reminder that his life was Death's plaything, the better. Also, who knew what the mafia would do if they caught him coming back from the dead?

With a little bit of unnoticed magical help, the tide between the battle quickly turned.

Skull smirked, only for all expression to fall off his face a moment later. One of those few men with the colourful fires turned his direction, gun in hand. It was a brilliant red that caught Skull's attention. It coated the man's weapon – and bullet too, Skull noted absentmindedly, as it came bursting forth from the barrel.

Something about the odd fire magic seemed to call to him, and his body resonated the feeling. Skull's hands moved before he consciously deliberated it. He wondered if he was stupid, trying to  _catch_  the bullet with his bare fists.

Skull  _knew_  he couldn't die from this - Death wouldn't let him - still, something roared inside of him. Something primitive and visceral that refused to accept death because there was some much more to life he had yet to experience in his new found freedom, but most importantly, how could he leave Ron and Hermione alone?

Why was he so foolish, rushing into dangerous situations again?

Images of the war flashed through Harry's mind. There was a feeling of something snapping, because Skull had promised himself that he would protect his friends forever, not cause them more pain and suffering. He couldn't do that to them.

And then his hands bursted into purple.

"Well then," Skull thought. That was unexpected.

Then he was pitched backwards as the bullet hit him.

Just having purple flames, it turned out, didn't do anything to stop the attack. Not that Skull expected it to, untrained and ignorant as he was on the thing in general. Sometime in the future, after adrenaline wore off, amidst his pondering of how he triggered the Flames, Skull would think back and note to himself how, even untrained, the purple had lingered comfortably warm under his skin and helped knit his wounds exponentially quicker.

At present, Skull bit out a cry of pain, clutching his wound to staunch the bleeding in vain. Around him the Carcassa family were already subduing the one who had shot him. Skull was glad – he had been very tempted to shot a nasty spell at the man for the injury, secrecy be damned.

He'd tried to sneak away after that. The Santora seemed to realised they were beat, and the downed were dragged away as the remaining few retreating back to their headquarters. There was no reason to stay through the aftermath.

Sadly, the Carcassa had other plans.

Or rather, they'd amicably offered him medical attention for his wound. When he'd refused, they'd insisted rather roughly. Which was how he found himself sitting in a small mansion, attended by medical staff.

It wasn't long until he was escorted into another room, further in. There, a man with an imposing aura sat behind a study wooden desk. He had distinctly Italian features and slicked back hair greying at the temples. There was something about the way he moved and dressed that spoke of importance much, much higher than the other mafia affiliated members Skull had seen so far.

"Ah," he drawled, eyeing Skull's attire. "You must be the young man my men mentioned."

Right, as if it wasn't any more obvious that this was the Don. Skull stood up taller and mentally made a note to tuck away the more obnoxious aspects of his showman persona. It wouldn't do to have the Head of mafia family personally kill him for his audacity.

"I'm Skull De Mort," he said curtly.

"I see. Please excuse my manners, I am Giuseppe, the Head of the Carcassa Family." The man's gaze was mild, but Skull felt vulnerable under his stare. Skull considered himself exposed to the darker side of life – death, war, murder – but these men who grew up in the underground world were experienced in a way Skull could only imagine. "I must admit, I am curious why you took part in that little skirmish of ours?" he asked, as though the gun fight between the two families was a typical, everyday thing.

"I couldn't stand around when I head they were trafficking children." And really, that was it.

Giuseppe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And which Family are you affiliated with?" he finally asked.

"None."

There was a doubtful glimmer in his eyes, before, "Clouds aren't particularly agreeable being tied down, I suppose?" he mused, sounding like he was both stating a point and asking Skull for confirmation.

Skull stayed quiet at what he could only consider an off-tangent comment.

The man smoothly carried on. "Perhaps it was fate that led you to helping my men. We clearly share the same views on the despicable Santora, and your Flame is a great advantage for our fight against them. Will you lend your skills for the Carcassa Family?"

Skull blinked. Flames? "The purple fire?" he blurted out before he meant to.

Though it was a minute thing, Giuseppe's gaze on him changed. It'd been cautious previous, but now… Skull wasn't sure what to call it. "Don't tell me- are you  _civilian_?" he asked.

"Well… yes?" Skull admitted, uncertain.

Giuseppe figuratively leapt at him at that. He subtly hinted at the dangers the other mafia families posed to him if he remained ignorant. He cited the omerta to deter him to reaching out to the authorities for help. He suggested they could assist him in harnessing his powers in exchange for working for the Carcassa. Skull realised he  _could_  name that look on the Don's face – he was like a shark that smelled blood in the water.

Skull conveniently decided not to mention that he'd already made up his mind when he learnt they would teach him.

And like that, months passed.

Skull liked working with the Carcassa Famiglia. It was new. It was different. And he learnt a lot about his Cloud Flames. There was something about manipulating his Flames that reminded him of magic. It wasn't anything different to calling up his magical core and twisting his magic to his will to perform spells and curses, though albeit in a more limited capacity because the flames were a bit more specialised.

The Cloud Flames had a separate core in his body. Instinctively, Skull realised that having two cores was a rarity, if even possible (ha,  _normal,_  he couldn't believe he ever entertained the thought he could ever be normal). Duo cores pulled the body's soul in too many directions, until it warred with itself, core against core in an attempt to dominate, until nothing was left.

But Skull was different, because Skull was Harry, and for years his body had already been used to foreign forces shared within, curtesy of Voldemort's unintentional Horcrux. Voldemort's destruction left a space for the Cloud Flames to grow and grow, because Flames were something unlike magic in that all people were ultimately capable of cultivating it if they tried hard enough – to various degrees.

Finding the Flame core it in order to call it up again was the hardest part of Skull's training. Once he found it, the concept was the same as harnessing magic, Skull found, and Skull's talents grew phenomenally.

The Carcassa were impressed with him. Skull would've considered working longer with them… up until he found out their drug-trafficking tendencies.

Drug trafficking… not the worse thing there was, especially considering they were mafia and all. But nope.

Just nope.

He wanted to break them apart himself, but there was no reason to play hero. Still, it probably wasn't a good idea to drop a tip to the police, omerta and all; he didn't need the  _entire_  mafia on his tail. But, dropping a hint to other famiglia wasn't against the law. Especially when he'd noticed a few who seemed to avidly avoid doing business in dirty things like that.

It was a shame Skull hadn't run into that type of Family first.

Either way, that was the end of that.

Or so Skull thought.

The Carcassa Famiglia, it turned out, were a persistent bunch.

Skull had to hone his new ability – Cloud Flames – in order to evade them. He had magical means whenever they weren't around, and Flame means whenever they were. Really, the chase was exhilarating in the same way travelling and stunts were to him, and his magic meant he was always one step ahead.

Skull couldn't complain.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the name Renato Sinclair fanon? I mean, I know Reborn changed his name when he was cursed, but did canon ever give us his real name? Wiki says no, but I see Renato floating around so often. Also, I like it; it fits him...

 

Skull had gone back to stunt performing when a man in an iron hat and checkered mask suddenly appeared before him. He was immediately suspicious of the man, with his odd choice of attire. The man seemed ready for a masquerade party, considering the mask, while the trench coat he donned on was more than blistering hot for the current weather. Skull had a fleeting suspicion the man was a wizard – Merlin knows wizards couldn't dress like muggles for the life of them.

The Cloud was on guard in an instant.

"Who are you?" he demanded, not too politely as the man approached.

The checker-masked man was undaunted by his attitude. "My name is not important. I am only here to gather the World's Strongest. The  _I Prescelti Sette_."

His Italian made Skull pause. Mafia business, he presumed, because Harry Potter had no ties to Italians. Nevertheless, though there weren't many, if any, who connected the two identities, Skull could never be too careful.

"World's Strongest…" Skull repeated, prodding for more information. "I take it I'm not the only one you approached?"

There was a wiry smile on the man's lips as he extended his hand, paper in grasp. "Go here to meet your companions."

"I work alone," Skull rebutted, hands crossed.

"Because no one matched your skills – until now," the man countered smoothly, paper still held unshaking in front of him.

The problem was, Skull  _was_ itching for a challenge. After his wild stint with the Carcassa, life seemed pretty mundane. Did the possibility of a trap outweigh his decision to do as he pleased? Skull stared at the map, hesitant, trying not to acknowledge how the longer they stood stock-still in front of each other, the stronger Skull's will wavered.

Wordlessly accepting the paper, Skull flipped it in his hands in an act of casual disinterest. Behind his mask, the man smiled knowingly.

"I look forward to you appearance," the man said, like he already knew that Skull wouldn't be able to resist his curiosity and come. He stepped back into the shadows, and a feeling of Misty Flames washed over the area, before the man disappeared; definitely Mafia business, then.

Skull tsked and shoved the map into the folds of his pockets, planning to forget the thing altogether.

That didn't quite go as planned. The man's instincts hadn't been wrong. In the end, Skull was still the reckless man Harry Potter had been.

It wasn't long until the fated meeting of the invited  _I Prescelti Sette._  Skull didn't bother to change his attire, donned in his stunt suit and helmet, because that was who he was. If that checker-masked man wanted someone more professional, then it was his fault for choosing Skull to be part of his group in the first place.

Skull was the last to arrive.

He scurried to his seat around the large, ancient round table provided for them, as he observed the others the checker-masked man had invited. Though Skull's submergence into the mafia culture hadn't been long, he recognised the faces of the renowned figures around him, each one the top of the underworld in their respective fields. And though they were all older than him, around early-thirties, they were younger than Skull had imagined, given their fame.

There was the a lady known as one with divination powers, the ace of the Special Forces, a well-known Triad member, a scientist prodigy, a vicious information broker, and the world's greatest hitman. Skull truly felt like the odd one out.

"Who might you be?" the Triad member asked when he gingerly took his seat.

"I am the Great Immortal Skull-sama, the man hated by Death himself!" he tacked in, enthusiastically, mostly to make up for his lack of title (which was a lie, because between Skull and Harry, he had amassed an abundant of titles, but the ones prestigous enough to stand up to this group of people were private).

The Asian man nodded. "I am known as Fon. I do apologise , but I don't seem to recognise you. May I ask your profession?"

"I'm a stuntman. There is nothing impossible for me to pull off."

"A stuntman," Fon repeated, mild concern in his voice.

"Someone like  _you_ were invited?" the man beside Fon spoke out with distain.

"What of it?" Skull huffed.

There was a dark glimmer in his eyes, underneath his black fendora. "Do you know who I am?" he said, voice silky and dangerous.

Skull grimaced. Of course he did. Who didn't know Renato Sinclair, world's greatest hitman? Skull knew the seven years he spent at Hogwarts learning how to manipulate magic had transferred to his quick understanding in Flames. Yet these men, all six before him, didn't have that guidance and still reached the apex of their talent within three decades of their lives. Skull was both awed and terrified.

Though out loud, "No one important if Fon didn't bother to ask your name," Skull said instead, words flippant.

"My reputation speaks for itself, unlike you," Renato retorted. There was a distinct click of a gun and a murderous aura washed over him.

It was very telling, the life Harry lived, that the moment the killing intent hit him, his nerves instantly calmed. Skull had lived too long on the opposing side of antagonistic figures – Voldemort, the Death Eaters, the whole Wizarding World when he was Undesirable Number One, Snape, and heck even the Dursleys to some extent. What did it say about him that Skull had honestly been flustered up until the hitman's blast of deadly aura, and that his threat had done the opposite because of its familiarity?

Skull was not normal; his reactions were not normal. Still, Skull didn't need the whole world to see how screwed up he was.

Skull shook his body in a mock of a shiver. "Okay, okay! I was joking," he said, placating. "You're my senpai," he added to appease the hitman, because  _someone_  had to be the bigger man and sooth the building discord. It was less of admitting inferiority, this foreign word, and more of acknowledging the man's higher level of experience in the field. And all the better if Renato didn't know Japanese and he managed to confused the man.

Renato wasn't the World's Greatest for nothing. "That's better," he murmured, settling down in his seat once more. "Don't you dare forget that, Lackey."

Skull bristled.

"Now that that's over, can we begin?" Lal Mirch interjected before Skull could rant on, though it was obvious she'd enjoyed the show.  _Bigger man, be damned!_

"Time is money," the one known as Viper contributed.

"Please don't fight," Luce calmed the lot of them.

Skull huffed but swallowed his words; despite Lal and Viper's indifferent comments, Luce honestly looked concerned and Skull felt slightly appeased. He had his own experience calling meetings to order and understood the aggravation when no one bothered to listen.

The man they'd started referring as Checker Face never appeared in front of the group again, but he did leave written letters for them to follow. It was not long later that they were given their first mission. Their task was to assassinate not only the Don of the corrupted Varnos famiglia, but also his guardians and all blood relations.

Skull shift uncomfortably.

He was well aware of the darker side of the mafia world from his work with the Carcassa famiglia, but outright killing someone never sat well with him. He'd been force to kill Voldemort as a child, and he justified it by the knowledge of the muggle genocide Voldemort led. The Varnos were corrupted, but did that make them as bad as Voldemort?

And what of their family who had done no wrong?

"Weakling," Renato said, when he looked over at him, reading the reluctance off his posture.

Lal and Renato had been designated their temporary leaders – Lal Mirch because she was the only one who had the experience leading a team, and Reborn because assassinations were his thing.

Skull didn't say anything to Reborn's words, because that was the truth – though hesitation to kill wasn't necessarily a weakness, more than an issue of morality.

In the end, he'd join in the mission, more to prove Renato wrong than anything, though his reputation amongst the team had already been set. They'd consider him the weakest, naivest, a boy barely tainted by blood on his hands like they all had.

Skull let them believe what they wanted. They weren't Ron or Hermione; their opinions didn't matter.

He was never sure if it was their lack of faith in his skills, or the fact they didn't want him to fall too deep into the darker side of the underworld, but they shoved the "simpler" jobs onto him. He was used as the decoy more often than not – though the fact he was fast on his motorbike and called himself Immortal might've helped that decision. Not that Skull complained; these perceptive warriors would have no doubt caught on to his deteriorating body had it not for the fact their interactions during battles were miles apart, and they never gave him straining roles.

He was fine with them considering him weak – it was better than  _delicate_.

The pay for the job was much better than any of them expected. Not that Skull needed the cash, with his vault in Gringotts full of old money, but missions was exhilarating, if he ignored the idea of doling out death, and even just watching these selected World's Strongest work was a rewarding experience on its own.

Checker Face gave them a variety of missions after that, from guarding, stealing, to dismantling famiglia. Then, he'd told them to climb a mountain to search for a particular treasure.

Their teamwork had been improving greatly over the course of the missions. They'd started off as strangers, and it was now to the point where Skull was certain if he straggled behind, there was a high possibility even someone like Renato would come back for him …  _maybe_.

Of course, this was when everything when to shite.

They'd only reached the summit when a mysterious light shone over the six of them. There were sounds of a scuffle off to the side, but blinded as he was, Skull couldn't see a thing. Even the visor of his helmet seemed useless in this unnatural glare.

It'd faded a mere second later.

Skull's body felt weird. His insides felt compressed and body and mind were out-of-sync. But above all that, a single thought stood out – he didn't hurt at all.

Skull's daily life had consisted of enduring the pain Death bestowed onto him as his body declined and readied itself for the coming of the Master of Death. But now his chest wasn't clawed bloody with discomfort, head wasn't throbbing, and limbs didn't feel a constant sore strain.

He brought his hand to his chest in amazement, only then to notice the odd size of his fists. His head snapped up to look at his fellow team members.

They were all babies.

"Colonnello!" Lal's voice screamed in the background. Their attention quickly turned to the blue haired woman, who was small as ever like them, but in her arms she cradled a blond none of them had seen before.

It'd taken a while for them to sort themselves out, after finding Checker Face's final letter to them fluttered to the ground. They had pacifiers around their necks now, all pulsing in their dominant flame. They were cursed humans to bear these Arcobaleno pacifiers, which harnessed their Flames in order to support the life of Earth.

To sustain their own continual lives, their bodies had been shrunk to the form they all were now. It was a strange thing; Skull's knowledge in the magical arts never covered anything remotely close to something like this. He took off his helmet for once – he'd never dared to before, lest his teammates started treating him like the twenty year old his body looked like (and the fact it hide his grimaces well when the raging burn of his body was particularly bad was a plus) – wondering how this odd phenomenon had altered his clothing size as well. His stunt suit fit as snuggly as it did when he was adult, and his helmet had shrunk equal proportions. His teammates' attires had undergone the same change.

While the others were talking, Skull stared at them, dazed. The World's Strongest were now adorable and terrifying in equal parts. Verde's usual sharp gaze was now strangely endearing, and he wondered if Renato knew he acquired a lisp.

"What are you looking at, Lackey?" Renato snapped suddenly, gun pointed at his head. He threw a kick in his direction, unusually vicious, when Skull didn't answer.

Skull endured it.

Skull couldn't blame the hitman. They were all reduced to baby-sized versions of themselves, the skills they've developed that brought them to the top of the food chain, no longer fully accessible. It was an insult to them. But here Skull was, with not so hidden delight in his eyes, pleased at the curse, while everyone else despaired. The Sun hated him for it.

Renato became inconsolably brutal - the words he shot at Skull were harsher than ever, without the soft undertone Renato started to recently use underneath the taunts. His kicks and bullets were heavier and sharper, still not aimed to kill, but so much closer to littering him with bruises and cuts than ever before. It was obvious the hitman could not forgive Skull's enjoyment over their curse.

It hadn't taken long for the others to catch on and see what Renato had seen. Their reactions varied, but Skull was certain their view of him lowered. Heck, Colonnello started calling him Lackey as well.

It wasn't their fault they didn't understand; it wasn't their fault they didn't know how long it'd been since Skull had ever lived a day without constant pain. They didn't know how Skull had long resigned himself to a life of daily light-headedness and sore limbs and bloody coughs. It wasn't their fault he didn't have a reputation as important as theirs to uphold.

Later, he trudged back to the designated Manor with the rest of the team, partially shunned by the group, though Luce looked wary but apologetic. He then prepared to apparate away when the others were out of sight.

It didn't work.

Skull's heart skipped a beat.

This had never happened before. Even after years of the world screwing him over, the one constant in his life had always been his magic, but now… Skull dove desperately into his mind, his internal soul, searching for his magical core. The Flame core had expanded, stretching aimlessly through the whole of his soul. Meanwhile, his magic was nowhere in sight.

A sudden wave of vertigo hit Skull, and it had nothing to do with his illness, especially not now, now that it all but disappeared with his age-change. This feeling of dread of the unknown – was this how the others had felt once they changed forms? Skull cursed his luck that he hadn't realised his magic had been affected earlier, because then he would've shown the same horrified expression as his fellow teammates. But now, all they would remember was that spark of joy in his eyes, and he knew he had ruined his relationship with the other Arcobaleno for that – Renato, for sure.

He ended up going home the old-fashioned way.

When Skull fell into bed after a long evening of meditation, Death was livid in his dreams.

Skull woke up the next day with a greater understanding of how the curse affected him, thankful it hadn't suppressed Death's visits.

He washed off his makeup and ran a hand through his purple hair. His hair and eyes were still charmed purple, and he didn't have the magical skills anymore to change them back to their proper colours. He looked different and his magic was missing – everything that made him Harry Potter was stripped away from him and unexpectedly, he was sorely missing it all.

Skull was glad he still had Hermione's phone number.

Ron and Hermione arrived moments after he hung up on her, via the emergency portkey he'd gifted them with, the last time he visited.

Hermione's reaction to his current form was immediate. "Still getting yourself into trouble, I see," she sighed out loud.

"I wasn't the only one this time!" Harry countered futilely.

"For some reason that doesn't fill me with confidence," she deadpanned back. Ron, off to the side, was snickering away. Harry sighed at his friends' reactions.

"What happened this time?" Ron asked when Hermione finally finished reprimanding their dear friend.

"Well…" Harry looked at his tiny form. He wasn't more than a year old, and finding clothes that fitted had been hard enough. He could already tell Hermione was cooing internally at his appearance, her mothering instincts in full force.

Slowly, he told them of Checker Face and the Arcobaleno's responsibility to bear the pacifiers to ensure the Earth's continual existence. And then to lessen their worry, he ended it with, "My body doesn't hurt anymore. It's normal again. It's not dying on me."

Hermione's shoulders relaxed. "That's good," she breathed in relief, adding, "you'd been losing weight every time we saw you."

"But how does turning into a baby stop Death's plan?" Ron interjected.

Harry twiddled his thumbs, then, "My magic is gone," he said, and he thought he sounded stoic enough, but suddenly Ron and Hermione had him in their arms, consoling him.

"Oh Harry."

Death explained the problem to him. The pacifier he now bore was part of something called the Tri-ni-set, artifacts which had created the world. They ran on Flame ability, drawing it out from the host's system to fill what was once a clear pacifier until it shone brightly in their Flame element. For anyone else, it was just that, but for Harry who had a magical core as well, the pacifier's draw repelled that foreign, useless power so that his Flames could shine through unfiltered, unhindered, and do its duty as required.

Death's rage had been palatable in his dreams. The Arcobaleno were beings who walked out of time, and the time that had been set for Harry's ascension to Master of Death was suddenly non-existent. Death's magic involuntarily receded its hold on him. And he couldn't even forcefully take Harry back, because he and the Arcobaleno were keeping Earth and everyone on it alive; Death would have no one to govern without Harry doing his Arcobaleno duty.

Only afterwards, when the pacifiers were passed on, decades later, would Death be able to claim him back, and then the preparation for becoming the Master of Death would continue once more.

Like his destiny had once been, his fate for uniting the Deathly Hollows was something Harry could never escape from.

"I-" Hermione floundered, uncertain of what to say. If she volunteered to find a counter to the curse, it would mean the pain would start up for Harry once more. Yet if they let it run its course, it meant Harry would be without his familiar warmth of magic for a long, long time.

Harry shrugged at her dilemma. "Do it for my team's sake. I won't die when the curse is passed on, but they don't stand a chance."

Her eyes soften at his selflessness. But everyone already knew Harry had a 'people-saving thing', and really, they should've expected that from him by now. Plus, he'd bonded with the people on his team – though they were violent and bossy at times, they were starting to become something like family.

"But Hermione," Harry said, so that she didn't spend nights upon nights in the library and forget about Ron and the rest of the world. "Don't stress about it. I know knowledge of Flames is elusive to the Wizarding World, so just do what you can."

She drew him into another teary hug.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In between last chapter and this chapter, canon takes places.
> 
> I wanted Harry to be the Skull you see in KHR, not remold canon!Skull into someone similar but not... if that makes sense. That's why there were certain events last chapter to direct it back on the canon path - like how Harry loses his magic, because Skull has no magic, and also that was how he'd been avoiding the Carcassa and canonSkull fell into the family's clutches once more. Also why Reborn sees him with such animosity in canon (also truthfully, I never understood how anyone could hate him at first sight, if not for a conflict that caused that animosity).
> 
> I can already tell from reviews that some people didn't like seeing things pushed back towards canon route, and while other understood what I was doing after seeing last chapter. Meh, everyone has their opinions. This is just what I had planned for the fic from the beginning.

In the end was not Hermione, but Tsunayoshi, with help from Talbot, who found the solution to their rainbow curse, in the conclusion of a fight known as the Representative Battle of the Rainbow.

Other than the disappearance of their pacifiers, nothing else seemed to change - physically at least. Skull however, sucked in a gasped breath, because that empty feeling in his chest suddenly warmed like years of savouring hot chocolate in front of the Gryffindor fireplace. The swirl of his magical core was released from the prison the Flames had suppressed it into. Skull shivered as his internal energies rebalanced themselves.

It was difficult to keep himself from openly beaming - perhaps the only thing that did it was the sliver of what he now recognised as death's magic, resuming it's coil around his being.

Around Skull, the physical aspect of their curse was being discussed. The ex-Arcobaleno were expected to grow up rapidly over the course of the year. "By my calculations, a month should be the equivalent of roughly four years," Verde mused, running calculations and simulations no one else could understand.

"We're going to have some crazy growth spurts, kora," Colonnello sighed resignedly.

"Wait until puberty hits."

Skull remembered his teenage years the first time around, and paled at the thought. "At least in five months and we'll be legal to drink again," Skull joked, to get his mind off of those embarrassing years of first loves and awkward kisses. Honestly, after being unaging infants, being able to drink was the least of everyone's cares.

But then there was a sudden spark in Reborn's eyes at his words as he turned towards the Vongola Decimo, though Skull had a feeling he just wanted an excuse to fondly torture the teen. "You heard Lackey, make the plans, Dame-Tsuna," Reborn said, holding a gun to his student's head.

The boy tried to stifle his  _hiiiee_ , but everyone heard it all the same. "What? What plans?"

Turned out Reborn was expecting a party thrown for them, alcohol and all, when they reached the legal age. He explained it in not so many words, and with bullets dancing around his charge's feet until it finally clicked.

"Okay, okay! I would've done it if you just asked!" Tsuna cried, tears in his eyes.

"What was that?"

He paled dramatically. "Nothing!"

"Good."

Though the party had been planned for five month's time, it ended up being pushed back a month and a half. Tsuna was a radical Don-in-training, and despite his attempts to be kind-hearted to all, he had his fair share of enemy vying for his head. Since Tsuna volunteered (or rather, was volunteered by Reborn) to be the host of the party, they had to wait until Vongola rooted the mastermind behind the latest attack on them, before the plans could commence.

So, after a destructive ending, curtesy of Tsuna's destructive Guardians, the party was finally held just past six months in. All of the Vongola were present, as were the Varia, the CEDEF, and all their allies.

The former Arcobaleno were roughly physically twenty-six by then.

Skull faltered in his decision to join the celebration, because the mid-twenties had never been good years for him and his dying body. But how could he decline when he was more-or-less the person who proposed the idea of the party in the first place? Thankfully, Skull always had a low presence when he wasn't throwing out dramatic gestures and words. He could easily get lost in the crowd if anything went awry.

Skull hoped for the best, but curse it, his Harry-Luck had never worked whenever he wanted it to.

The party started out fine, full of laughter and speeches, and of course the drinks. There'd been a minor constant throbbing behind his temple the whole day, but it was nothing Skull couldn't ignore.

He hadn't expected the pain the double, nor throw him in so much agony.

With jagged breathing, Skull held in stifled moans. The pain had been gradual throughout his original years, but now that he was accelerating though his ages, the tolerance he'd slowly built up was suddenly shot.

Skull's knees buckled involuntarily. He was thankful he hadn't been holding on to a drink as his hand flailed for hold. It took a second, but eventually Skull managed to stand without assistant. His fingers curled into his palms, leaving crescent indents as he ordered his legs to move in natural steps. He managed something that looked more like stumbling shuffles, but he was moving away and into the shadows before anyone caught him, and that was all that counted.

Except that was a lie.

"Skull? Skull!" Fon exclaimed, ruining all his plans to disappear without anyone the wiser. His eyes were as sharp as one would expect from an ex-Triad member.

The panic in his tone alerted the other former infants.

"What's going on?"

Skull tried to tell them off, but the moment his mouth opened, he started to cough. It was the sort of cough that was wet and deep, and didn't want to ever end. His shoulders shook desperately, enough for one of them to reach out to steady him.

"Go away," Skull whispered hoarsely, when his fit receded. He was curled up on the floor, surrounded by worried faces Skull didn't want to see. He desperately wished he hadn't been so considerate and just skipped out on the party altogether.

Skull struggled to escape from where they'd corralled him, but firm hands held him down.

"Helmet, off," demanded Lal, because she needed to assess the damage.

Skull gripped adamantly to the bottom rim, but his limbs were sluggish and heavy, and he was no match for his family. It slid off with several forceful tugs.

"It's nothing," he tried, to no avail.

What caught their attention was first his age, then the hint of red around his mouth that coated over his purple makeup.

"How old are you?" someone asked, while there were soft curses in the background. According to Verde, the curse had halted normal growth when they'd regressed into babies. Now that the curse was broken, they would mature back to the age just before to curse latched upon their souls - the last decade they spent as the Acobaleno would not be added to their years. Yet here Skull was, looking no more than twenty, when the rest of them looked half a decade older.

"I'm older than I look," Skull insisted fiercely.

"Really?"

"I am –  _was_  - almost thirty, damn it," Skull spat, which was better than his apparent age, but he was still the youngest of the lot. His physical age stagnated at twenty, not because he'd finished growing from the Arcobaleno curse, but because of Death's will – not that he could explain that to the rest of them. There was a reason why he refused to remove his helmet in front of the group, those semi-peaceful months before their curse had taken place.

Skull huff and glared, and looked like he wouldn't budge on the issue.

So, they'd focused on the blood instead.

A damp napkin was reached over to dab at his lips. Skull waved them off. "I bit my lip when you wrestled my helmet off me," he said, pulling up at anger and annoyance, because their feelings of guilt would make them back off. "It's nothing," he repeated once more.

Reborn, curse the man, flipped over his helmet and saw the coat of blood he'd sprayed over the visor when he'd hacked up his lungs. "This isn't  _'nothing',_ " he hissed lowly. "Lackey…"

"What's wrong?" Colonnello demanded.

"Are you sick, Skull?" Fon asked worriedly, though the word ' _sick'_ , was a clear understatement in his eyes.

Skull looked away. Try as he might, there was no escape from the World's Strongest, so he reluctantly gave in.

"I have… "  _a curse_ , Skull wanted to say, but they'd all only just escaped from one, and who was Skull to remind them of those horrible days once more? And a curse implied a counter could be found, and Skull didn't want them to waste their time searching futilely for his sake. "- a condition," he finished instead.

"What sort of condition?"

"It doesn't matter," Skull deflected.

"Why didn't we know about this?"

"The … the curse suppressed it," Skull answered honestly, because there was only so many things he could lie about before he got caught up in his lies.

Realisation flashed across Reborn's eyes, and Skull remembered that he had been the one to originally noticed his joy when the Arcobaleno curse first struck them. Skull's relationship with Reborn had nosedived from the hitman's weird act of fond sadism to actual distaste because of that. It had taken the duration of the curse for them to slowly build their trust back to the level they all once had, though Skull always knew that issue had always been a silent tension sat unmovingly between them.

"And before that, Lackey?" the hitman pushed, though the voice was not as biting as it had been up until now. Skull felt surprisingly vindicated, at seeing Reborn pulled off his high-horse.

"I'm a showman. You see what I want you to see," Skull said grandiosely, and then softly, added, "It's easier to endure when I have time to build up my tolerance."

"So if it hadn't been for the growth spurts, you would have never told us."

Skull lowered his eyes and looked away. That was telling enough.

"You idiot."

"I'm fine," he insisted once more, but it wasn't like anyone bothered to listen to him anymore.

"Shamal," Reborn ordered, and then parted to make way for the man.

Skull eyed the doctor. "I thought you don't treat men?" he rebutted as the doctor kneeled down next to him.

Shamal only shot a glance to his left, where Reborn stood, dangerously tapping his long fingers against his holstered gun as he watched their interaction. The semi-circle composed of the other former Arcobaleno stood just as intense, surrounding the two on the ground.

"Ah," Skull murmured. But on the other hand, Shamal didn't have the eyes of someone only doing this under duress. Rather, he shared the look of worry everyone else were expressing.

"You're a good man," Skull told Shamal, and then resigned to his fate, because it seemed that nothing would be able to talk the doctor out of giving him a checkup.

They relocated him to the Vongola medical bay, Reborn personally escorting him the whole way, eerily gentle for once. For a prideful man like Reborn, that was an apology if Skull ever saw one – the hitman was always one for actions rather than words.

Shamal prodded and pressed with his medial knowledge and flames, coming up short because Skull's condition was nothing they could ever comprehend. It was Death's curse (gift), and Death defied the restraints of the mortaly feasible.

Even Verde joined in, though he was less of a Doctor of humans than one of science and technology (or whatever that struck his fancy).

"I-I don't understand," Shamal muttered confused. "There's nothing physically wrong."

Verde shook his head as well.

"Damn it, kora," Colonnello exclaimed, while the rim of Reborn and Mammon's respective fedora and hood shadowed their dark eyes.

"I'll talk to my contacts," Mammon finally said, eyes latched onto Skull with unspoken words of debt. Though the fact they hadn't demanded the money  _before_  they volunteered their service was telling enough. "Some have … _unusual_  talents."

But Skull knew nothing would work, no matter who they ask for help, because there was no one who could escape from Death. Except, perhaps the  _Master_  of Death, but Harry wasn't him yet, and he wouldn't be him until he died, which was something they were adamantly trying to prevent in the first place. It was a perpetual circle that got nowhere.

It was no surprise the ex-Arcobaleno were stumped.

Skull watched as their mood sunk, growing bitter and dark at the immovable challenge.

"Do you believe in magic?" he asked one day, out of the blue.

Skull considered the six of them all family enough to be excluded from the Statue of Secrecy, and even if they weren't … Skull doubted Aurors could even touch these  _World's_  Strongest figures, if they tried.

Perhaps Skulls wanted to show them the Skull underneath the lies before he ultimately disappeared from their lives. Perhaps Skull wanted them to give them a distraction after hitting constant walls in the search for a cure for Skull's incurable curse. Perhaps Skull just hated the sight of his dejected family. Or perhaps, deep in his heart, Skull hoped these magnificent beings would find out the legend of the Deathly Hollows all on their own and offer him a fresh perspective or optimism from his inevitable death.


	6. Chapter 6

 

When the former Arcobaleno's growth spurts finally stabilised, Skull introduced them to his best friends.

Ron and Hermione were over their forties by now, with mature appearances that fit their ages. It was a bit awkward to look young and forever twenty in front of them, but neither seemed to mind. It'd surprised Skull the Arcobaleno had been willing to travel all the way to Great Britain to meet the two who were just as much family as them. But, he supposed he would've done the same for any of the six.

Mammon had frozen at the door way of Ron and Hermione's home when he spotted the two, eyes darting across their faces before switching to Skull. There was an intense look in them that had the rest of the family waiting on the Mist's explanation.

" _They're_  your friends?" they said, incredulous.

Skull tilted his head in obvious confusion. "Yes?"

Mammon moved swifter than any of them had seen before, grabbing Skull by the collar of his stunt suit. Their other hand pushed brusquely against the man's forehead before lifting his fringe of purple hair. There was a scar on his head, looking too deliberately like a lightning bolt.

"You're the Boy-Who-Lived."

Skull frowned, stepping backwards, hands flattening his hair once more. "I'm not a boy."

"They're calling him the Man-Who-Conquered nowadays," Ron quipped from where he'd been watching. His voice was casual, but with a glance, Skull could see a strain in his wand hand, ready to cast a spell should it prove necessary.

It wasn't.

Skull had nothing to fear from his family, even if they found out who he truly was.

"You're a wizard, Mammon?" he asked for the sake of clarification. Though he knew they had the title of  _esper_ , it'd always seemed different from wizarding magic and Skull never noticed a wand.

"The information will cost you," was the expected answer.

Skull let out a loud sigh. "Never mind then," he muttered. He could live with his assumptions.

"Man-Who-Conquered?" Reborn parroted, eyes narrowed, because after all of Skull's explanations about the Wizarding World, this was one fact he disregarded. Which wasn't even his fault because they never got around to it, with the Arcobaleno's interest in just about everything.

"Skull is?" Colonnello chortled at the thought, and the overly dramatic title. Not that 'The Man Hated by the Grim Reaper Himself' was not as dramatic, but Skull reckoned it was something they were all well used to by now.

There was a sound of a cocking gun that had Skull's instincts snapping his head over to the world's greatest hitman. Yet the gun stayed firmly out of sight, to Skull's immense relief. The last thing he needed was for Ron or Hermione to react badly to Reborn's usual antics. "I see you're still keeping secrets from us, Lac- Skull," Reborn said silkily. Say what you will about Reborn's brutal personality, he also knew decorum and the appropriate times to use it.

Skull pursed his lips into a sulk. "It wasn't important," he insisted.

"You never consider anything about yourself important," Hermione rebutted mildly, with a shake of her head.

Skull sulked and stuck his tongue out childishly, before skulking away into their kitchen. Possibly, he was trying to escape from Reborn without him being any the wiser, but somehow Skull didn't think he fooled the hitman. He shivered at the thought of Reborn's punishment, because Tsuna told horror stories that kept him up at night.

Back in the living room, the former Arcobaleno were all of one mind.

Colonnello shot a look at where Skull disappeared off to before shifting in reflex to cover the exit. Verde's fingers curled around his new inventions in his lab coat pockets, and Fon's stance unconsciously slipped to something light, graceful, yet completely dangerous.

They were rearing for battle, Skull would say if he saw them – though in this case, it was one more of words than physical altercations.

"Chaos," Reborn greeted, slinking a terrifying distance towards the two magical beings. There was nothing wary in his attitude, despite those early days after Skull explained about the Wizarding World to his family, and they realised the cheat that was magic. Reborn was fearless as the world's greatest hitman, but a hitman was useless against what he couldn't hit, and Skull had told and showed them all about wands and their unavoidable methods of shielding and disarming. Perhaps he was confident enough to have belief his own response time was quicker than anyone else's. It wouldn't be a lie.

Skull's initial reveal had most of the ex-Arcobaleno shaking their heads in disbelief – ' _most'_  because Mammon had known, and Skull had a feeling their 'unusual talented contact' who they had mentioned briefly beforehand had been a wizard, most likely.

The fact that Skull had the magical skills to back up his claims, and that Mammon of all people supported him, had the rest of the team reluctantly accepting the truth of Skull's words.

Even Verde, scientifically inclined as he was, couldn't deny the facts. Though he did try his best. Until he admitted science had already failed to explain many phenomena like Flames and their Arcobaleno curse, and magic really wasn't as farfetched as any of those.

In the present, Reborn boldly approached the two who were Skull's best friends. "Tell me, what do you know about Skull's condition?" he said, straight into an interrogation.

Hermione looked thoughtfully at him. "Why do you want to know?" she asked cautiously, sounding him out.

"He's sick, kora. We just want to help," Colonnello cut in.

The woman hummed to herself, before saying, "His death is unavoidable," like that would stop them from persisting.

"But what  _is_  his condition," Lal pressed, and resolutely held herself from reacting from Hermione's unwitting slip. They knew Skull was sick, but she'd mentioned  _dying_  so naturally like it was an inevitable ending that was so close at hand. They never realised it was that bad.

Reborn's hands clenched.

Hermione, unaware, only shook her head. "I can't say. If Harry didn't tell you, then I won't be the one to reveal his secret," she said, like the loyal friend she was. Though, there was something regretful in her expression.

"Don't look at me," Ron chimed in, a wiry pull on his lips.

"Harry?" Lal repeated, at the name so foreign yet familiar.

"Harry Potter," Mammon completed in a huff. They pursed their lip, still upset by their own startling lack of realisation.

Verde's eyes darkened. "Harry Potter; Boy-Who-lived," he muttered to himself, recalling the tombs of texts he encountered covering that pitiful hero and all his exploits. Never in his research had he thought to connect Skull to that infamous figure. "I recall coming across amateur speculation regarding Harry Potter's scar and the possibilities of dark curses lingering from the failed death spell," he said cautiously, a hypothesis building. Though, Harry Potter lived an adventurous life, and if that suggestion proved fruitless, there were  _dozens_  other feats to sieve through that could give clue to Skull's condition.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look at the unexpected knowledge.

The team had done their research; they'd busied themselves with obtaining information about the Wizarding World, far more in-depth than Skull had divulged to them, because they already knew Skull would not be forthcoming with answers unless they found it themselves.

The fact that he'd failed to tell them he was  _Harry Potter_  was proof enough of that.

Hermione's posture softened. "That speculation is not entirely untrue," she admitted, but still, she shook her head. "However, that was taken care of by Harry – in the most heart-pounding manner possible, I should add." Hermione sighed. "His stunts will be the death of me," she muttered under her breath.

Ron chuckled silently beside her, shoulder nudging against hers. "Can't forget he's doing  _actual_  stunts nowadays."

"So that's a no," Verde said to himself, selectively ignoring information that played no part to his theory.

Reborn's mind raced. "There was a mention of something during some Triwizard Tournament event.  _Harry Potter_  disappeared for a moment of time to be involved in a … ritual of sorts to revive the so-called Dark Lord."

Mammon hummed thoughtfully. "Parasitic connection to leech off Skull's life-force?" they pondered, latching to Reborn's idea. "The possibility of the connection persisting after the Dark Lord's death is not zero," they said slowly, "especially if the ritual was performed by a third party."

Ron shivered at the thought. "Glad it's not that," he said, mostly to himself.

"Regardless," Hermione followed up ruefully, "please do stop guessing. We won't say any more about this matter, whether you are correct or not."

"Not ever a hint?" Colonnello plead hopefully.

Fon tucked his hands into this sleeves and asked, curious, "You won't help us, despite our concern for Harry?" And perhaps using a name more familiar to them rather than Skull was slight manipulation on his part – to get them to subconsciously relate and soften their tight guard.

Yet, they only denied them once more.

"We constantly worry for Harry as well. Sometimes he doesn't realise that sharing the burden isn't bothersome on his part, despite what we tell him. So I understand where you're coming from, but still, the secret is his to tell. If you want to hear it, you'll have to hear it from him."

Pushing further would lead to nothing.

"Harry trusts us to keep his secrets, and we won't betray his trust like that," the woman continued. She eyed them knowingly. "You understand, don't you?"

They did.

It was almost charming how much the former infants cared for Skull, to grill his two best friends like so, but Hermione and Ron were Harry's best friends for a reason, and the best friends any wizard could wish for, loyal to a fault.

After surviving the Arcobaleno's combined force of interrogation, Hermione and Ron were excellent hosts. Dinner was a less eventful affair, though flying plates and the sight of House Elves certainly made up for the lack of entertainment. Then nighttime quickly approached.

"You can stay the night if you want," Ron said, looking at Skull, but the offer was for the whole of the team.

"If you don't mind crowding, there's a guest room you can all share?" Hermione suggested.

The ex-Arcobaleno stared disagreeably at each other. Though they're family, there were liable to kill each other if forced in the same room for too long. Skull frantically shook his head at the thought.

"Thank you for the offer, but we shall find a suitable hotel," Fon told them appreciatively.

Skull snuck a peek at Mammon grumbling under their breath about the cost, before letting out a sigh. "Come with me," he said, leading them to the door. "I disconnected the Floo Network so we'll have to go there by foot." With a thanking peck on the cheek to Hermione and a brotherly hug to Ron, he hailed a cab for his mismatched family.

They rolled up in the Borough of Islington, specifically Grimmauld Place, with little fanfare. The group looked at the row of residential buildings. It was only until Skull handed them a piece of paper, written: "The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is located at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," that things made sense – or got a little more magical, depending on who was asked.

In between number eleven and thirteen, a new unit squeezed into existence.

Skull really should've expected the calculative gazes instead of awe. Because they  _were_  Mafia, and for Mafia, safety came first, admiration second. "Yes," he sighed fondly, "you can use this as a safe house in the future, if you need it."

It wasn't like it didn't just sit there and gather dust to begin with.

Plus, they could find out about Walburga Black's portrait on their own. Skull definitely didn't want to wake her up if he could help it.

He quietly led the group into the grim house, ushering the lot of them into the useable rooms on the first floor. The cleaning sessions during those scant years the Order used the Black's ancestral home as headquarters had done away with much of the musk and grime, but the later years of unused did no favours for their flimsy job.

Skull sneezed as dust wafted through the air as the group trode down the halls.

"These ones should be relatively clean," he said gesturing casually, thankful no one mentioned a thing about the gruesome sights of beheaded house-elves mounted on plaques along the way. "I'm sure you've all slept in worse places."

He tried to shuffle away after dropping them off, but none of them budged.

"You think you can leave just like that?" Lal said. She stood with her arms crossed and unmovable.

"Uhh, goodnight?" Skull tried, but her expression only flattened, unimpressed.

"Try again."

This time, no longer hindered by niceties and outsiders, Reborn brandished his distinctive gun. Skull stilled in anticipation. "Well, Lackey,  _clearly_  there has been a lot you've left out about the Wizarding World  _and_  about yourself."

"There was a lot to cover," Skull retorted tentatively, only to fall into a duck as a shot rang out. " _Senpai_!" he wailed.

"Excuses," Reborn tsked, readjusting his smoking weapons.

Skull's eyes flickered to the only gentle member of the team for help, but Fon only stood with his arms folded under his sleeves, a disappointed glimmer in his eyes. Lal and Colonnello looked eager to join in with Reborn, Verde unadulterated curious, and Mammon indifferent.

Skull clenched his teeth in a building of anger. "It's  _my_  life. It doesn't matter whether you know or not. That was me then, and this is me now. I like who I am."

"You didn't think knowing about your life was necessary in our search to cure your condition?"

Skull jerked his eyes away from them. "Cure?" he said, pitifully bitter, "I  _can't_  be cured. I know better than anyone."

Gunshots rang out, but the only victim was the shower of plaster from the ceiling. Skull held still in place as it snowed around him. Reborn's figure loomed from above. "Perhaps if you  _spoke_ of this elusive condition, instead of cowering away like usual, we will see for ourselves."

 _"Filth! Scum! Who dares trespass the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! Kreacher! Kreacher!"_  a shrill screech echoed through the house.

Skull ignored Walburga Black, more focused on Reborn, gaze narrowed.

"If you think you're so smart, why can't you figure it out on your own?" Skull retorted, though unfairly because they were still playing catch up to wizarding common knowledge, and how could Skull expect them to know about the obscure fairy tale that hinted at his curse?

Reborn and company had stiffed at the foreign voice, but Skull never reacted to it, so they forced themselves to put it to the back of their mind. No one left to search out the object of the incessant insults. It was on the list of magical occurrences that the group knew little about, but they trusted Skull to never lead them ignorant into danger.

If anything, they only drew in closer to Skull, a tight-knit huddle that covered each other's backs, just in case. Skull tried to dismiss how he was in the center of it all, the most protected position, despite his greater knowledge of the things that went on in the Black House.

"I have a perfectly able source right here," Reborn replied silkily, mentioning nothing about how his guns were tilted to aim behind Skull, to protect, rather than towards.

"Why can't you let it go?"

"Why!? Because we care about you, you moron," Lal snapped.

She was an inch away from pummelling a fist into his face, but the thought never registered. Rather, Skull's mind caught on her words, so blunt and fierce, with nothing to hide.

"I-" Skull looked away. "I know you do," he said at last, ire numbing from the pronouncement. He let out a sigh. "I know you do," he said once more – and honestly, though there were hints of insecurity in his tone, it was of one mostly of certainty. "I just- It's just not something I want you to worry about."

It was exactly as Hermione said.

"You think we're not worrying if you don't tell us about it?" Lal scoffed.

"If anything, we only worry more, kora!"

Skull cast his sight over the six of them. If anyone else saw these men, they'd think they were standing in idle indifference, but Skull saw the concern in the curve of their posture and the wrinkles in their faces. "You'll be scared of me," he said at last, quiet, an honest truth that spoke of his childhood days and the echoing shrieks of ' _freak_!' sent his way.

He wasn't even normal for a wizard's standard, and Merlin knew how peculiar wizards could be to begin with.

Reborn crossed his arms. "I'm the world's greatest hitman," the hitman said grandiosely, ridicule in his tone. "Nothing scares me."

Skull blinked wordlessly. He studied Reborn, then turned to the other, something akin to hope and wonder building in his chest. Wasn't that true, Reborn's words. They were the World's Strongest, with knowledge of colourful flames, special species that existed before the birth of humans, and the victims of Tri-ni-set. They knew more than the average human, be it magical, mafioso, or muggle.

Skull curled a hand in the hem of his stunt suit and then, before he could change his mind, resolutely turned on his heel. He strolled down the long hallway and entered the Black Family Library, feeling the presence of the other six following silently, but dutifully, behind him. Focused eyes scanned through the titles branded across the spins. It was only when a familiar title caught his eyes that he finally stopped.

He removed the book to the ex-Acrobaleno's curious gazes.

"How about a story before bed?" he asked. Then he dropped the book on the table and walked away, leaving them to crowd around it. If his family were truly as smart as he knew they were, they would be able to read between the lines and see the so-called fairy tale in its true form.

The title, " _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,"_ glistened under the artificial lighting. A gust of magical wind flipped the cover and turned them to the right chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

The first of the former Arcobaleno to die, barring Skull, was Verde. He lived a long, fulfilling life, doing experiments and publishing scientific papers, until he was downed by an explosion of his own doing. Verde was well sought after as a scientist, and his work only became more and more outrageous and unfeasible to the plebeian mind as the years went by.

Verde knew the dangers as well as any innovative inventor, so death via a mistake in the lab was not something out of the parameters of his postulations. He died doing what he loved, and nothing was more acceptable than that.

So when Verde opened his eyes once more, after the blinding light and pain shook off from his body, and saw  _himself_  lying on the floor of his laboratory, his only word was a thoughtful " _huh_ ".

Then he kneeled to study his deceased form.

There was a chuckle behind him. "Hah, I knew that would be your reaction," a painfully familiar voice said, smug.

Verde turned, and though his eyes were green, and hair black, Verde recognised that facial structure and posture anywhere. "Skull," he said. There was something warm in his tones, hidden well beneath his blunt greeting that no one but family would've been able to pick up on. It was good thing family was what Skull was.

"Verde. So, uh, sorry to tell you, but you're dead," Skull said, trying to be professional.

There was a deadpan. "Clearly."

"…right," Skull muttered. Then he pulled a hesitant smile on his face, "Not surprised to see me?"

Verde pushed up his glasses and crossed his arms, rising back up to his feet. "When your body disappeared, it was appropriate to hypothesise you had truly become this 'Master of Death'. Since Death, as portrayed in the ' _The Tale of the Three Brothers',_  is understood as a physical being as opposed to a concept, it is fair to assume you, as the Master of Death, share similar traits – one being the ability to become concealed from human eyes. Though I could not assert if your failure to reappear before us once more was due to a refresh in your memories, an incapability to show your form, or some irrational emotion of guilt or whatnot."

"Right, genius," Skull said absentmindedly, drawn to his memories.

He remembered that night he opened his eyes inside of a coffin. He'd pushed the lid in panic when he realised where he was, only for his hands to faze through. He'd slipped through completely, to be faced with the being he'd known as Death, so much clearer, both visually and audibly, than it'd been in his former dreams.

His coffin hadn't been buried just quite yet, still in the middle of being transported out to his gravesite. It'd been a surprise for the hired men to suddenly realise the coffin was lighter than it should be, and when given the permission to open it up, realise the body within was missing.

Not that Skull knew until later on, when Death told him, but his family all made immediate plans to convene by his empty coffin. At the time, Skull had already been whisked away by Death to learn of his tasks as the Master of Death.

Though throughout the years, he saw his family, in the invisible, intangible state that was now natural to him, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to console them when he would only disappear from their lives once more as he took on his duties. They were no longer part of the same world.

(or maybe that was just a lie he fed himself because he couldn't bear if they started treating him differently.)

Skull averted his eyes from the scientist. "You didn't have to word the third point like that," he said in a mumble.

"An idiot as ever," Verde sighed, to Skull's more-or-less admission.

Skull smiled at the unsaid words. "I missed you too."

 

 

Mammon's death, despite their relatively young physical age, was completely natural. Their esper ability was unnatural to the human body and corrode it down little by little until their natural lifespan was shorter than average. Had Mammon been a wizard or witch, that would've been a different story – magical beings were sturdier than muggles or squibs, built to support the magic coursing through their veins.

Sadly, the mutation had skipped Mammon's generation.

But with their information network, Mammon was well aware of the facts, so the early death hadn't been a surprise. Mammon had already planned for the future well before death took them.

When Mammon's soul separated from their physical body one uneventful evening, Mammon lamented for their piles of unused cash, before settling down to wait.

It wasn't long before Skull appeared, looking young as ever, bearing the face recognisable by the Wizarding World. "Mammon!" he cried, looking crossed between joyful to see them, and depressed at their death.

Mammon turned towards him. "You still owe me money," they said without any preamble.

Skull froze, running a hand through his unruly black hair sheepishly. "Ah ha ha, you still remember that?"

"Death does not excuse your debt."

"But I don't have any cash on me," Skull whined, never mind the fact it was now useless to the Mist.

Mammon tilted their head, bearing their unrelenting gaze onto the Master of Death in silence. Eventually they huffed, conceding with a, "I'll release your debt. Just once. Next time I'll double it," in a gruff manner despite their affectionate words.

"Thanks Mammon!" Skull grinned, because he knew they were a softy inside.

Skull had gotten the memories from Death, since he hadn't been conscious for it. When the World's Strongest found him when his mortal body finally gave out, Mammon had been the one to take charge. They'd used their time and money to arrange for the coffin and funeral, without their usual grumbling.

They'd finished everything in a timely manner, but then waited and waited in hopeful silence that drew out the wake until it had been inevitable, just in the small hope Skull would open his eyes once more.

They'd paid for that extra time when they hadn't needed to. That itself was telling enough.

Skull's grin softened into an earnest smile, warm and loving.

"So, out of curiosity," Skull said, showing that childish and cheeky attitude they'd always, and forever onwards, related him with, "can I finally see your face now?"

There was a pause as Mammon regarded the question, before they flipped down their hood for one last time.

 

 

It was an open secret that most expected Reborn to be amongst the first of them to die. The man was fierce and headstrong, and the danger levels of his missions were top tier. He was the world's greatest hitman for a reason, and that title alone already brought on its share of threats.

Perhaps becoming the unofficial advisor to his student, the Vongola Decimo, mellowed him out a bit over the years.

Reborn hadn't died on a solo mission, instead from protecting one of his student's Guardians. His final hours had been in pain, not that he showed it on his face, but also surrounded by people who care immensely and unconditionally for him.

Years ago, Renato Sinclair would have never expected a departure quite so loving – perhaps one with scornful delight as his enemies crowed as his surrender of his title – but now it was a normal thing and Reborn expected nothing else.

"You've done well, Dame-Tsuna," Reborn had said fondly for one final time, before his last breath cross his lips.

Then the pain was gone.

Reborn blinked as a hovering spirit while time slipped seamlessly away. Then, he turned sharply. "Harry Potter," he said, to the man who suddenly appeared. ' _Harry Potter'_ , because ' _Skull'_  was the rambunctious stuntman who did things his pace, who called himself immortal, and too self-less for his own good.

Though Harry Potter was not someone entirely different, he encompassed traits that did not belong to the Skull they knew, was still family, but was also something grander than that that they could not comprehend no matter how hard they tried.

Reborn, who had reconstructed himself much like what Skull had done, realised the subtle difference between the two identities.

"Which name should I call you by?" Skull wondered.

Reborn only stared flatly, fingers twitching, and Skull chuckled nervously back. "Ah, of course. Senpai."

"You thought you could escape from me, Lackey?" Reborn growled, as though he hadn't spent the weeks after Skull's death hidden away to research the Deathly Hollows.

Reborn had listened to Verde's postulations with a stoic face with the rest of the family, but when he left, he'd snuck into the Wizarding World, as he had done since Skull introduced it to them. He'd already done work uncovering stories of the Boy-Who-Lived, and there may or may not have been a sharp decline of stray Death Eater fugitives or activists who managed to evade the system, still. Gathering information on the Tales of the Three Brothers was a harder objective since many only assumed the work as mere fictional fables.

But Reborn had persevered regardless, because Skull was family, and who was to say nothing went wrong, especially since he disappeared completely without a hint otherwise.

Skull hadn't meant for him to worry.

"I didn't want to get shot," Skull said defiantly.

"Wrong answer," Reborn replied, pulling out his gun. He aimed it at Skull's head, and the Master of Death jumped and scrambled away, screeching, but grin on his face all the while.

Reborn pulled the trigger. There was a bang and a bullet that left no mark in the spiritual world, not that Reborn had actually locked on his target to begin with. And though the shot did nothing, Skull yelped regardless, because he could.

"I'm sorry, Senpai! Don't shoot!" he cried, running away.

Behind him, the tense strain on Reborn's shoulders, there since Skull's death, quickly melted away.

 

 

Fon's death was much like his life, calm and peaceful, in his whirlwind world of Mafia and the Chinese Triad. He died in his sleep, in the best way one could hope for – painlessly and without regrets.

Fon lived a long, prosperous life. He was able to see the solitude animal that was his nephew, slowly open up until he was surrounded by people who loved him for who he was. He was able to see his apprentice, though no longer interested in Martial Arts, grow up to create a family of her own, child on the way.

When he slipped out from his physical body, Fon jolted awake in surprise. It took him a second before he understood what happened, and then he gave a deep bow to his mortal body for supporting him all these years.

"Hi Fon," Skull said when he arrived.

The Storm straightened up and glanced over the Master of Death. Skull squirmed but held still, knowing the man wanted to assure himself he wasn't harmed in anyway during his transition into his new role.

At last, Fon relaxed, a gentle smile gracing his face. "Skull," he greeted, "I am pleased you are well."

Skull rubbed the back of his head. "I'm sorry I just disappeared."

The look Fon offered was full of understanding, and perhaps he did, because this was a man who carved his own way through life, dabbling in both the Triad and the Mafia even when it was a general consensus that the two parties always butted heads. "You had your reasons. Perhaps not sound ones, but they were what you thought was best."

Skull nodded, gratified to know someone as kind as Fon.

Skull had honestly made no arrangements for his eventual death, trying to postpone, trying his damnest to avoid thinking of the thing altogether. It was Fon who argued for Skull's body to be returned to his native soil, buried with his parents in Godric's Hollow. Though they'd all wished in their hearts that Skull remained with them, Family was still different from family.

But then Skull's body disappeared. Unusual as it was, Fon still insisted to bury the empty coffin. Perhaps he hoped it was an object for Skull to tie his spirit to, that if he ever  _truly_ died, he would finally be able to join his family. It hadn't been hard to open up to Fon, who was always there to quietly lend an ear to listen to Harry's fondest desires and wishes since childhood.

Skull was touched by his actions that only showed how earnestly Fon heeded his tales.

"Thank you," Skull said to the Storm, seemingly out of nowhere. But his eyes expressed how deeply he wanted to convey those words, and Fon understood his message.

 

 

Lal and Colonnello died of old age, one following just behind the other, much like how it'd always been in life.

No one ever doubted their strong relationship with each other, so it was never a surprise when the two wedded. Their younger years were spent supporting the Vongola Decimo, and later years in a retirement that still included numerous visits to their favourite Japanese Don.

When their two souls finally left the mortal plane, Lal and Colonnello shared a glance, to see their young, spry faces looking back at each other instead of the wrinkly old skin they were used to.

"Well, that's unexpected," Lal murmured, as Colonnello held her tight.

"Is this a bad time?" Skull asked sauntering towards their embraced forms.

The two turned sharply. "Skull!" they called out, sounding awfully wrathful.

Skull rocked on his heels, scrubbing a hand through raven locks. "Is that a 'yes'?" he asked innocently.

Lal broke from her husband's hold, all but storming to their lost Cloud. "You left us without a word!" she reprimanded, because no matter how many years went by, that was something she'd never forgotten. Her accusing finger jabbed his chest.

Skull looked away, unable to deny her words.

Those few hours before his mortal life was over, when Death finally decided it was time for him to claim ownership over his title at last, Skull had been given a courtesy warning. Instead of informing his Family, Skull had shuffled indecisively through the Vongola halls, before sneaking away to die alone.

He hadn't wanted to see his Family mourning over the inevitable. He didn't want them to see him breathe his last breath and feel helpless, because helpless was the last thing these wonderful people should ever be. He didn't want them to ache throughout that long hour, plague with anxiety and thoughts of should-have-done's and shouldn't-have-done's.

It didn't take long for them to realise Skull was missing.

It'd been Colonnello who'd found him first.

They'd all seen him 'die' before - shot in the head, stabbed in the chest, crushed by his own crazy stunts - but the injuries never stuck. After much horror and confusion, they'd tentatively stopped overreacting to supposedly lethal occurrences because Skull always opened his eyes and walked it off like a minor scrap of his knees.

Except this time Colonnelle stumbled over their most dreaded outcome; Skull's cold, unresponsive corpse. He'd freaked out, alerting all the ex-Arcobeleno, Vongola, and then some. Skull never meant for  _that_  to happen.

"What are you, a cat, kora?" Colonnello accused, finally able to express his complaint after all these years.

Lal elbowed her husband not so discreetly, though Skull had a feeling she wasn't bothering to hide it at all, because it was a fair comparison considering he  _did_  disappear on them when he knew he was about to die.

"I didn't want you all to worry," Skull said quietly, truthfully.

"But we still did," Lal corrected him. "We always will."

Skull dropped his head into a nod, a warm feeling washing over him. He knew they did, truthfully, despite that small sliver of doubt in the back of his head. It wasn't his fault his early childhood under the Dursley household as Harry Potter conditioned his constant reservations. Some habits were hard to change.

Lal's eyes softened. With an unspoken agreement, she and Colonnello suddenly leaned forwards and pulled Skull into their arms.

"We're family," Colonnello declared. "Even after death."

 _"Always_ ," Lal swore, like a promise to uphold the whole world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, bookmarked, and left kudos!
> 
> I said it wasn't going to be long, but really, 17k is on the wordier side of most my fics haha.


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